Form and Function
by Burnedtoasty
Summary: G1. Shockwave: mostly superior.


**Disclaimer**: _I, in no way, shape, or form, own the Transformers© franchise or the characters it contains. All publicly recognizable characters are copyrighted to Hasbro, and the respective artists/writers/et cetera. No infringement intended._

**Continuity**: Generation One (G1) cartoon-verse, pre-series, at some vague, undisclosed time before the Autobots and Decepticons awaken on Earth.

**Characters**: Shockwave

**Warnings**: None

**Author's Note**: As for the summary, yes, I know Shockwave doesn't speak like Soundwave. But it sums it up so _well_. D: Criticism encouraged, technical points preferable.

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It wasn't so much a flaw as much as it was a… miscalculation.

His plans for physical development had never allowed for such considerations. Shockwave was not a mechanism created for guerrilla warfare or treacherous terrain, and his design reflected that.

It was, after all, a body schematic he had manufactured himself. He had taken great pains to construct a form efficient and simple, the final design becoming somewhat austere, but more than serviceable for his ends. The meticulous experimentation and implementation of untried (though indubitably viable) technology had resulted in a body almost faultless, down the minutest of details, the very model of craftsmanship. No wasteful, extraneous parts; no face or mannerisms to betray his logic processes; no loss of reason, or control. He was not a creature bound by its emotions, to be jerked and pulled about by irrational, illogical impulses. He was designed to be better; to be… incomparable.

He fulfilled his higher-functioning purpose with relentless diligence and unerring precision, everything the Decepticons could want in a guardian-strategist and more. Oh, yes, Shockwave could solve any quandary he was faced with, could calculate an applicable, feasible solution to every dilemma offered by this disordered, illogical universe, and executed every coup with aptitude and exactitude. He was the perfect sentinel, tactical logistics and cognitive operations running on the highest performance level available; his graded, retrograded and upgraded weaponry more than capable of decimating any opposing force set before him; unquestionably steadfast and unreservedly loyal to Lord Megatron, and the great Decepticon race. Could he be any less than the consummate Decepticon? He was Shockwave, supreme in every capacity, brilliant beyond measure, beyond compare.

His energon use was only thirty-eight point nine-nine-six of the average build-caste of his weight and size. His typical transformation took only _five eighths_ as long as Lord Megatron's own, and he shifted at nearly twice the average when compared to any of those substandard cretins he called comrades. His body was broad, bottom-heavy, lending him anchorage and steadiness. The armor plating he had chosen was only the highest grade, a metal nigh indestructible, selected for stress-tolerance and tested under the most extreme conditions, requiring only the minimum of maintenance. He was built to _defend_, to hold one position and keep it until resources could be spared and diverted to assist him.

There was no circumstance from which could not find a way to extricate himself – _nothing_ that could stop him from fulfilling his objective, and furthering the mighty Decepticon Empire!

… Though, he had not taken into account the possibility of this _particular_ scenario during his extensive machinations.

But then there had never been any _need_! There should have been no reason for him to be placed in such straits, so far removed from his station, and aid. What precedent could have prepared him for such an outcome? Never had he wandered so far from his center of operations, not since he had been charged with the responsibility of holding Cybertron in Lord Megatron's absence. And who _knew_ what anarchy would greet him at his inevitable return…

Drones never could hold a post well. But then, think how much worse off he would have been with inferior, fallaciously _emotional_ individuals left in his stead. Horror of horrors. At the very least he had not erred so very much in that capacity.

Though, in others…

His oversized feet – which suddenly seemed so heavy and cumbersome – scrabbled uselessly at the rock-face, dislodging pebbles to clatter their way down the terrible chasm below him. His thick, blunt fingers dug deep into the stone, clinging for all he was worth, seeking to burrow their way into the crumbling rock. His inexpressive singular optic flashed with something fast approaching dismay, and, with a great, heady sense of regret, he stared down at his greatest impediment, the _one_ factor thwarting him from hauling himself back onto firmer ground and out of this quagmire of a tactical blunder.

Why the slag had he thought having a gun for a hand was a good idea?


End file.
